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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT: 



POEMS 

By 
JAMES GRISWOLD 



POEMS 



By 

JAMES GRISWOLD 

II 



With a Foreword 

By 
PERCEVAL M. BARKER 



NEW YORK 

THE SCRIBNER PRESS 

1918 






Copyright, 1918, by 
Mary S. Griswold 



JAN -2 1919 

CLA511189 
>w0 I 



Dedicated to 
JEAN WOLCOTT GRISWOLD 

and 

GEORGE JOHN LYNDE GRISWOLD 
in memory of their Father 



FOREWORD 

JAMES GRISWOLD was a poet. He 
wrote poetry because he felt it and because 
he had to express his feelings; he wrote 
for himself and for the love of writing. 
His ideals were high, they were elusive, and 
one feels that he was continually searching 
for them. To me it seems that sometimes 
he found them in his dreams. Here he 
lived much and found that spirit of whose 
sympathy he felt so sure and to whom he 
addressed so many of his verse. Griswold 
loved poetry as he loved all things beauti^ 
fill. Beauty exhilarated him as nothing else 
could; nothing but ugliness would really 
depress him. He had the heart of a true 
poet; you felt it in his nature, his life 
showed it. 

The most of these poems were written 
in the years just prior to a long, serious ill- 
ness, in the early part of 1915. During 

vii 



that time his spirit was imbued with poetry 
and he was much absorbed in his verse. 
His absorption in all things that he found 
worth doing was great, and so his work 
was good, his poetry was good, he was 
a good surgeon, a good sportsman, and, 
finally, he died a good soldier. 

I have just been reading over these verse, 
and they recall to my mind many things 
about Griswold of which I would write, 
but here, in a foreword, it is of James 
Griswold, the poet and dreamer, I shall 
speak. As a poet and dreamer he was 
most lovable to me, and with these attri- 
butes his rare individuality most clearly 
shone. Griswold was earnest and cheer- 
ful, he had a wonderful humor, his quiet 
laugh twinkled, as did his eyes ; yet behind 
that laughter was a depth of feeling, some- 
times even a sadness. He was filled with 
human kindness and his understanding 
toward those less fortunate was wonder- 
fill: he would be roused to great indig- 
nation over an injustice. He was loyalty 
itself and thus made many friends, yet was 

viii 



the most reserved of men. His indiffer- 
ence to those not worth while was abso- 
lute. He lived with a joyous intensity, but 
the length or shortness of life to him meant 
nothing. Of his love of freedom, of birds, 
of trees, of flowers, his roving spirit, his 
love of the sea and his desire to lie near it 
in his last resting-place — as he now does — 
you will read; and in the reading you will 
feel his dreams, and they are the message 
of his soul. He has left his dreams here 
to us whom he has left behind. 

Griswold had much of the Greek in his 
nature and much of the precieux; poesy 
was to him a delight, but he was patient 
and painstaking: he would write and re- 
write, and was seldom, if ever, quite satis- 
fied with his work. He would jot down 
in an ever-ready note-book, at any time or 
place, his thought, then, later, perhaps way 
into the night, give hours of hard, untir- 
ing effort to frame those words into the 
thought-picture he wished to paint. 

This is not a critical review. Let him 
who reads find what value there is for him 

ix 



in this little collection of poems, which 
were not written for publication. This is 
a meagre expression of the hope of one 
who loved the Man — that many will know 
and understand the Poet. 

PERCEVAL M. BARKER. 

CAMP WHEELER, GEORGIA, 
June 11, 1918. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Foreword by Perceval M. Barker ... vii 

My Wage'Bound Body 1 

The Vagrant 2 

Sonnet 6 

"Ah Love, we know so little, you and I" 

Social Evolution 7 

May Song 9 

Hark, Ye Ladies! 12 

CuiBono! 14 

Vows 16 

Song 18 

The Way 20 

Sonnet XXVI 24 

"I love to gaze deep down in her dear eyes" 

The Fairies 25 

Life 27 

Autumn 29 

The Dancer 31 

xi 



PAOE 

Sonnet XXXI 33 

"Why is it, Dear, that now apart from thee" 

A Requiem 34 

May 36 

The Song of Lilith 38 

Hark, It Is Calling 46 

Found at Last 49 

To a Dryad . 51 

The Question . 56 

Why Do I Laugh? 61 

The Exile. A Valentine 63 

Sentiment versus Science. Sonnet XV . 65 
(To a deformed imbecile) 

An Harlot's Welcome 66 

The Mummers 68 

Sonnet XXXII 71 

"We show our smiling faces, we who know" 

The Seasons 72 

To a Statuette 74 

The Trespasser 77 

Sonnet XXXIII 78 

"What do I love? Thou, my beloved, best" 

xii 



PAGE 

Corydon and Amaryllis 79 

The eavesdropper 

My Lady 81 

The Neglected Shepherd 82 

Her Voice 84 

Her Face 85 

The Ships. "To Jean " .... 86 

The Lover's Alphabet 87 

Tout Passe 88 

Serenade 89 

Her Lips Are Like the Newborn Rose . 91 

Heart's Desire 92 

Spring Song 94 

Recessional 95 

Weep Not For Me 98 



Xlll 



POEMS 



MY WAGEJBOUND BODY 

My wage-bound body toils all day; 
My astral body far away 
At sea, or in some palm-tree's shade, 
Fights valiantly, or woos a maid. 

And yet each night, from land or sea, 
My astral half returns to me 
Splendent with stories which redeem 
Its vagabondage — then I dream. 



THE VAGRANT 

I wake ere the dawn has brightened 

Or when the sun is high. 

I tramp all day or loaf and play 

Till the stars are in the sky. 

There are none to say "Come hither," 

Though many may say "Away." 

I'm as free as the hovering butterfly 

That lives, like me — for a day. 

Yes, lives, like me — in the present. 

Will there be another morn 

Sweet as the one that has passed away, 

Sweet as the rose unborn? 

Will another butterfly hover 

Over the scented spray 

Of iris, rose, or marigold, 

Hover and live for a day? 



The clover is soft — I am weary. 

Shall I lie down to rest? 

Sweet is the scent of the dying rose 

Petals upon my breast. 

Sweet and faint as the lingering sigh 

When tired eyelids close; 

And a weary heart finds peace at last 

On the breast of one who knows. 

Shall I who love but to wander 

Awake with another day? 

Will the dawn dew gleam like diamonds 

The fairies throw away? 

Will a sparrow chirp in the coppice 

Until a jay responds 

And we welcome the sun together — 

A trio of vagabonds ? 



Must I worry about the future, 
I who have felt the sting, 
The scorn, the hate of all mankind 
Without once murmuring? 
Shall I worry about the morrow? 
Each night I leave behind 
A rose and a dying butterfly, 
Each morn some new I find. 

Do I differ from all about me, 
Am I some strange dream child, 
Born to wander 'twixt heaven andlhell 
Till Fate is reconciled? 
Have I known the joy of freedom, 
The sight, the touch, the smell 
Of a world that teems with beauty 
To end at last in hell? 



God knows! He made me a vagrant. 
Think what Fve felt and seen — 
Not of the chances Fve cast away, 
Not what I might have been. 
Think of the dreams that I have had, 
Think of my bed of hay, 
And think of the hovering butterfly 
That lives, like me, for a day. 



SONNET 

Ah Love, we know so little, you and L 
Some few short years of mingling joy 

and pain 
And fierce endeavour. Then — doth 
aught remain 
Beyond the lengthening shadows and good- 
bye? 
I know not, Sweet. The love light in your 
eye, 
The beauty of the sunset after rain 
May be His promise that we shall retain 
Our Love, though all about us seem to die. 

And when this life is ended, and we slip 
Out from its glare into abysmal night, 
Undaunted, unattended, like some ship 
That leaves her anchorage ere the - 
dawn's first light: 
Who knows to what new love beyond the 

stars 
Our love may lead us? — What new 
Avatars? 



SOCIAL EVOLUTION 

In the neolithic ages, 

When I roamed the woods and plain, 
Hairy, matted, scored by brambles, 

Low of brow and small of brain. 
Then the females, though prognathic, 

Seemed as winsome in my sight 
As you now appear, dear lady, 

Dancing in the rosy light. 

Then I roared and squealed my longings 

In a symphony of squeaks, 
Romping through the lonely thickets 

For the prey man always seeks. 
Till I spied — and, chasing swiftly, 

Seized her hair and threw her prone; 
And I won her love and homage 

With a hatchet made of stone. 



Now, amid the glint and glamour 

Of a higher plane of life, 
I converse, and dance, and flatter 

While my thoughts review the strife 
Of those prehistoric conquests. 

But, grown wiser, if less bold, 
IVe exchanged my old stone hatchet 

For a new one, made of gold. 



8 



MAY SONG 

I have heard you singing, 

Singing at the dawning, 
Singing in the twilight, 

Soft and sweet and low. 
Often have I searched for you, 

Longing, ever longing, 
Hoping still to find you, 

Wondering where to go. 

I have heard you singing, 

Singing in the meadows, 
Where the iris, blossoming, 

Spreads an azure sea. 
Often have I searched for you 

There; and where the willows, 
Weeping o'er the silent stream, 

Whisper tales to me. 



I have heard you singing, 

Singing in the forest, 
Chanting in the tree tops, 

"Find me, if you can? " 
Often have I searched for you 

There, amid the shadows, 
Following your fairy voice 

That mocked me as it ran: 

"April days are gone, dear, 

See the flowers that lay 
Sleeping 'neath the winter's snow, 

Welcoming the day. 
All the daffodils are here; 

And the hawthorn spray 
Blossoms like a fairy dream — 

'Tis merry, merry May!" 



10 



"Catch me, if you can, dear; 

Follow while I play; 
Hide and seek within your heart 

Through the livelong day. 
Love is in the wild wood; 

Care has flown away. 
Listen, while I sing to you — 

'Tis merry, merry May!" 

I have heard you singing, 

Singing at the dawning, 
Singing in the twilight 

Soft and sweet and low. 
Often have I searched for you, 

Wondering, ever wondering, 
If at last I found you, 

You would answer, No. 

May 1st, 1914. 



11 



HARK, YE LADIES ! 

Hark, ye ladies fair and fine, 
In word and action excellent- 

How frequently your thoughts incline 
Toward love — and secretly assent 1 
Let naught defer this good intent. 

So, lest perchance some cause detain, 
Free be thy love and thy consent 

While fleeting years of youth remain. 

And you, sweet maidens, who repine, 

Blinding your glances innocent 
With cadences almost divine 

And thoughtless argument. 

Not in this wise should life be spent. 
So, lest ye fail its sweets to gain, 

Free be thy love and thy consent 
While fleeting years of youth remain. 



12 



For all too soon will charms decline, 

Like roses of their petals rent, 
Devoid of perfume, beauty, line, 

Leaving ye old and impotent. 

Naught then remains but vain lament. 
So, lest ye blaspheme and complain, 

Free be thy love and thy consent 
While fleeting years of youth remain. 



ENVOI 



Ladies, whate'er be my intent, 

Hark to this lay and wisdom gain; 

Free be thy love and thy consent 

While fleeting years of youth remain. 



13 



CUI BONO ! 

It is not long, the little span of years 

God grants to each of us — youth, man- 
hood, age. 

Scarce long enough to taste its smiles and 
tears 

Ere He writes "Finis," and turns down the 
page. 

Scarce long enough for youth. Ah, roseate 

dreams 
That flame like mist-dispelling summer 

sun, 
Thy very gorgeousness rank mockery 

seems 
To those who know how swift thy course 

is run. 



14 



Scarce long enough for manhood. What 

avail 
Ambition, knowledge, strength— they, like 

the day, 
Wane, ere the task is finished, and we hail 
The still approaching evening, cold and 

grey. 

It is not long, the little span of years 
God grants to each; but should approach- 
ing age 
Rob me of all its smiles, when life is tears, 
Let Him write "Finis," and turn down the 
page. 



15 



vows 

Do you remember, dear One, how I swore 
That through all time your sweet face 

would I see 
As plainly as we saw, from off the shore, 
The fishing fleets of high-cliffed Normandy? 

Dear Heart, the mists of time have dimmed 

the best 
Of all my memories ; yet I faintly see 
Your face — like laggard boats far in the 

West 
At evening off the coast of Normandy. 

And you, fair maid, to whom I also vowed, 
Waking or sleeping, that your face would 

be 
Ever before me, like the sunlit cloud 
Across the smiling plains of Picardy. 



16 



How many years have circled round my 

head 
Since our sad parting; yet I faintly see 
Your face; as through the mist of tears we 

shed 
That evening, on the plains of Picardy. 

Yet I am not forsworn. For I still see 
Both of you, when I dream of plain or sea. 
You, whom I swore to love, in Normandy; 
And you, who heard my vows, in Picardy. 



17 



SONG 

Away, you Elves and Fairies 
And throng about her bed. 
Restrain your wild vagaries 
Until the night has fled. 
Fill all her heart with longing 
For me and for tomorrow; 
And store it with fresh love again, 
Pure love, unmixed with sorrow. 

Away, you Elves and Fairies, 
Away and guard her sleep. 
And evil thoughts inconstant 
From out her dreamings keep. 
Fill all her heart with longing 
For me and for to-morrow; 
And wake her smiling with the day 
She'll ne'er recall with sorrow. 



18 



Away, you Elves and Fairies, 
And when we two are wed, 
Hold, if you must, your revels 
About our marriage bed. 
Fill all her heart with loving, 
Nor leave a place for sorrow; 
Your duty endeth with the night; 
1*11 guard it from to-morrow. 



19 



THE WAY 

The High Way, the By Way, 
The meadow and the wood, 
And my way, the free way, 
The way IVe understood. 
Since first I took to roving, 
With heart and fancy free; 
And it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 

There's no need to hasten, 
One may rest from morn 
Till the lengthening shadows 
Show that day has gone. 
Roving in the moonlight 
Sets one's fancy free; 
And it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 



20 



Come and join me, sweetheart; 
We no tears provoke. 
All of life before us, 
Love the only yoke; 
Dreaming in the starlight 
Makes me long for thee; 
Though it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 

Youth is but our play hour, 

Age will take its pay; 

Why should we look forward; 

Have not we today? 

See, the sun is shining 

Over land and sea; 

And it's calling, ever calling, 

Is the Way to me. 



21 



Springtime with its greenness; 
Summer with its dust; 
Autumn with its sere leaves, 
Through it all I must 
Rove, and drink the sweetness 
That in each is free; 
And it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 

Farewell to thee, loved one; 
Could I settle down 
To a life of sameness 
In some stagnant town, 
Yours would be the face, dear, 
That could tame the free; 
But it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 



22 



The High Way, the By Way, 
The Land Way or the Sea, 
The Near Way, the Far Way, 
They're all the same to me, 
Since first I took to roving, 
With heart and fancy free; 
And it's calling, ever calling, 
Is the Way to me. 



23 



SONNET XXVI 

I love to gaze deep down in her dear eyes, 
Cleaving their crystal splendor as a star 
Cleaves through the velvet darkness — till 

afar 
In some unfathomed void it pales and dies* 
Tender and loving, all that glorifies 
Her purity and sweetness they unbar 
To my heart's search; and yet I know 

there are 
Depths there that I may never scrutinize. 
Ah, Love! Can she not see that I would 

share 
Each joy, each grief; would strive to 

understand 
The all, of which she grants me but a dole. 
Yet she would strip her tender body bare, 
And lay her tear-drenched tresses in my 

hand, 
Sooner than bare her inmost woman's souL 



24 



THE FAIRIES 

Some claim the Fairies have all gone. 
The woods are silent and forlorn. 
None dance by moonlight on the lawn. 

Of Pixies, not an one is left. 
The moors and hills are all bereft 
Of Elves, who hid in every cleft. 

The Brownies, Gnomes, and Little Men, 
Who lived in tarn, and tree, and fen, 
We'll never, never see again. 

Do not believe this thing they say. 
Our night is but the fairies' day. 
Now as of old their pranks they play. 

Now as of old they romp and sing. 
A cobweb makes a fairy swing; 
And joy is such a little thing. 



25 



No, no. The fairies have not fled. 
You foolishly have been misled, 
And, seeing not, think they are dead. 

Believe not half what you are told. 

The fairies live now as of old, 

But they have grown far, far less bold. 



26 



LIFE 

Life, thou art but a trickster. 

Sorrow and pain and mirth, 
The mingling tears and laughter, 

Where do they lead? The earth, 
Mother of all, is calling: 

"Dust, thou art dust, the best 
Fruits of my womb must each, ere soon, 

Return to my arms and rest." 

For of old thou cast a glamour 

Over the sons of man, 
Making him fear the darkness 

Where purpling shadows ran, 
Making him cry in his fearing: 

"Life, thou art all. Thou must 
Save us from Death, the Silence 

That waits us in the dust." 



27 



Thou art bright with a wondrous bright- 
ness, 

Sweeter than honey sweet, 
Fair as when first we met thee, 

Though we toil with weary feet. 
Though our eyes are dim with weeping, 

And cold thy darkening face, 
We pray thee, Life, have mercy 

And grant us yet thy grace. 

But I, who have slaved and feasted, 

Have fasted, laughed, and fought, 
Can fathom thy futile teachings, 

Too dearly art thou bought. 
Thou art winsome, oh, Life, and pleasing; 

Grant me thy springs* warm breath. 
But the chill at thy lengthening shadows 

Will teach me to welcome Death. 



28 



AUTUMN 

Autumn, most gorgeous of the seasons, 

clad 
Barbarically in scarlet shot with gold, 
Danced wantonly, as if some hetaira had 
Returned to us in all her beauty bold. 
Nor thought of aught beyond the passing 

hour, 
The adulations that her flauntings bring, 
The budding roses — not the fading flower. 

Danced, till one night chill Winter, creep" 

ing, clasped 
All her rich splendor to his hoary breast. 
And she, like love-mad maid a moment 

basked 
In Indian summer's loveliness, caressed, 
Yielded in glowing passion all her warm 
Ripe coloring, to win him for her own. 
Till Winter, tiring, in a sudden storm, 
Left her bereft, dishevelled, and alone. 



29 



Now ravished of her riches, all her gay 
Bright raiment torn and scattered by the 

breeze, 
She stretches naked arms as if to pray. 
Now sobs her anguish through the sighing 

trees. 
Gone is her beauty, and with it has fled 
All that she had to charm — to make her 

proud. 
But Winter, penitent at last, will shed 
Soft tears that hide her 'neath a fleecy 

shroud. 



30 



THE DANCER 

I watched you dancing long ago, 
Tracing such measures as entwine 
Tall lilies, swaying to and fro 
Before some ruined forest shrine; 
And dear, dead maidens, purged of woe, 
Danced with you — though you did not 
know. 

You danced with them, they danced with 

you, 
Weaving fresh fancies from the past; 
Dream fancies, fragrant as the dew 
Of meadows, where your feet have passed. 
Pure, as the unseen spirits, who 
Came there to dance — unseen — with you. 



31 



Unheeded was the throbbing strain 
Of viols, that our pulses thrilled. 
You heard the moist beat of the rain 
And Pan's weird piping till it filled 
Your soul with rhythm — and again 
You danced to its awakening strain. 

Ah, dear, dear lady, while you danced 
So pure, so sweet, so thoughtlessly, 
Your spirit claimed inheritance 
From some wild woodland ancestry. 
Claimed — and through ages of romance 
Slipped back unconsciously — and danced. 



32 



SONNET XXXI 

Why is it, Dear, that now apart from thee, 
Though I still dream, I dream not as be- 
fore 

Those wild, fantastic wanderings that bore 

My spirit like Odysseus oversea ? 

No more I hear the sword-song, sharp and 

free, 
No more the fretful ocean's sullen roar, 
No more heart-loose and vagrant do I soar 
With quaint moon maids in dreaming 

ecstasy. 
But now — the faint, sweet tracery of thy 

face, 
Soft-tinted as a flower; thy darkening eyes 
Revealing in their splendour all the grace, 
The purity, and tenderness that lies 
In thy dear heart. These fill my dreams, 

the rare, 
Exquisite fragrance of thy loosened hair. 



33 



A REQUIEM 

Beyond the reach of sorrow, 
Beyond the reach of pain; 

Untroubled by to-morrow, 
By care, or loss, or gain, 

She sleeps the sleep 

God gives the blest 

Who did from sin abstain. 

No call of mine can waken 
This sleeper from her rest. 

Though all my life forsaken 
By her, I loved the best. 

Yet will she sleep, 

Sleep sound and sweet; 
Thus ends the weary quest. 



34 



Oh, fond, sad heart, unshaken, 
'Mid sorrows that oppressed, 

By all the world mistaken 

Who deemed our love unblessed. 

Sweet be thy sleep, 

And in thy dreams 

Forget that we transgressed. 

Beyond the reach of sorrow, 
Beyond the reach of pain; 

Untroubled by to-morrow, 
By longing sad and vain, 

She sleeps the sleep 

God gives the blest 

Who sinned — but not for gain. 



35 



MAY 

April in wanton waywardness 
Has slipped away, and May 

In all her virgin loveliness 
Has blossomed with the day, 

To greet the waking woods again 
And teach the world to play. 

And in her eyes the azure skies 
Hold court from morn till night, 

And in her hair a fragrance lies 
As of some forest sprite, 

And in her voice the song of birds 
That carol with delight. 



36 



Under the wild wood arches green 
Her dainty hands with care 

Weave sunlit fancies — and unseen 
Upon the meadows where 

Her feet scarce bent the waving grass 
She dances, light as air. 

And yet this beauty wondrous 
May charm us but a space; 

As laughingly she came to us, 
So laughing will she race 

Into the great unknown again, 
And June will take her place. 

April 29, 1917. 



37 



THE SONG OF LILITH 

The songs of the daughters of Lilith 

Ring over the land to-day, 

As they did when she, the first woman, 

Was tempted and led astray. 

Then Satan did the singing, 

And he sang that he might win; 

But she learned and taught her daughters, 

And founded the trade of sin. 

Oldest of all professions, 
Since first the world began, 
Both innocent and guilty 
Have the songs of Lilith sang. 
Now by a painted hussy 
Walking the streets at night; 
Now by a simple maiden 
Dazzled by first love's might. 



38 



Fairest of earthly creatures 
Who can tell why you 
Should in some subtle manner 
Awaken the tale anew. 
How when in Eden's Garden 
She fled from Adam's side, 
To dally at love with Satan 
And preach the precept wide. 

Then Eve took up the burden, 
And mothered the race of man; 
But Lilith dreamed of the future, 
And dreaming formed this plan. 
Sang to her winsome daughters, 
Choicest of HelPs outcast: 
"Man is your prey forever, 
From now to the very last. 



39 



" Brown be your hair or golden, 
Grey be your eyes or blue, 
Unto each one, my daughters, 
A task I leave to do. 
Hard be your hearts, and harder, 
Strive but to gain your way. 
Youth is the season of pleasure, 
Age is the time to pay. 

"Work not, neither spin ye, 
Practice what now I teach; 
Laugh, though your hearts be breaking, 
If laughter your goal can reach. 
Weep, should you find that weeping 
Will win at last the prize. 
Every resource I leave you; 
Your power in cunning lies. 



40 



"Never a man of woman 
Was born who can read your heart, 
But the dullest woman should never 
Mistake — she knows man from the start. 
Wind them about your fingers; 
Enmesh them with your hair; 
Rouse and play to their fancies, 
They will not doubt nor care. 

"Play to inflame their passions: 

Longing, jealousy, lust. 

Play to their finer feelings, 

But yield no more than you must. 

Keep them forever hoping 

You'll grant all yet awhile. 

Let them believe they're winning; 

And men will come to your smile. 



41 



"Come, if you do but beckon, 

Though you crush them beneath your feet. 

For the fools are won, if you flatter, 

Nor injure their self-conceit. 

Never a man so mighty 

But can by you be led. 

If you'll study and find his weakness 

And trust not your heart — but head. 

"Tempt with your lithesome beauty; 

Invite with your eyes so bright; 

Deny with a coy demureness 

That leads him to think — you might. 

Never a man so noble 

But will become your tool, 

If he looks at himself as the master 

Though you by your wiles may rule. 



42 



"Comfort him in his sorrow; 
Your lips are warm and sweet. 
Cheer him to-day — tomorrow 
Demand what you deem most meet. 
Join with him in the madness 
That comes with a gladsome heart. 
Show him how much he needs you; 
Trick him — it is your part. 

"Youth is the time for loving, 
But love not so much the pain 
Will make you forget that woman 
Should love where there's most to gain. 
Some of you will be honoured, 
Some of you will be vile, 
But none of you will be honest 
While there is a man to beguile. 



43 



"All curse your lowly sister 

Who plies the trade for gold, 

But they honour the virtuous matron 

Who herself to her husband sold. 

Tricked by a woman's fancy, 

Cajoled by a woman's smile, 

Duped by the blush that mantles 

Your cheek while you scheme the while. 

"Thus will you play forever 
The old, old winning game. 
My heritage through ages 
Without one thought of shame. 
Honour, truth, and treason 
Will count for naught — just play 
The game with man as I teach it, 
And none can say you Nay." 



44 



Brown be her hair, or golden, 
Grey be her eyes, or blue. 
Each is a Daughter of Lilith, 
And the song I sing is true. 
For she left a taint in woman 
That makes her love the game; 
And whether as wife or lighto-love, 
She'll play it — just the same. 



45 



HARK, IT IS CALLING 

Why do we linger 'mid trouble and sorrow? 
Why do we linger on Life's weary quest? 
Why do we linger when Nature is calling, 
The sun in the heaven, the bird on the 

nest? 
Hark, they are calling, are calling, are calling : 
"Come, thou, and sing with us; banish the 

pain; 
Taste of the sweetness that lies in each 

dewdrop; 
Come and be one with us — children again." 



46 



Why do we cling to the world with its 

travail? 
Why do we cling to the world with its 

pride? 
Why do we cling to it? Nature is calling, 
The wind in the pine-tree, the waves and 

the tide. 
Hark, they are calling, are calling, are 

calling: 
"Come to the mountains, snow-wreathed 

in silver, 
Come and be one with us — come and be 
free." 



47 



Why need we think of to-day or to-morrow? 
Why need we think of the past? it has 

flown. 
Why need we think when all Nature is 

calling 
The forest resplendent like God on His 

throne? 
Hark, it is calling, is calling, is calling: 
"Come and be with me, oh child of my 

breast; 
Drink of the peace that is found in my 

silence; 
Come to your Mother, my children, and 



rest." 



48 



FOUND AT LAST 

My heart is as light as the slumbering cloud 

That dreams o'er the sun-flecked sea. 

My heart is light, though the days were long 

Ere I found my way to thee. 

Found the way, and to-night I'll sleep 
Pillowed upon a breast, 
Sweet as the violet in the moss; 
Washed by the dew of all earthly dross, 
And dried when a star caressed. 

My heart is as light as the wakening cloud 
That floats o'er the whispering sea. 
My heart is light for the bond is found 
That links my soul with thee. 
Found at last, and to-night I'll sleep 

Pillowed upon a breast, 

Soft as the down which a mother-bird 

Plucks from her breast when her love 
is stirred 

By thoughts of her building nest. 



49 



My heart is as light as the laughing cloud 

That kisses the tossing sea. 

My heart is light; I have found a love, 

A love that I share with thee. 

Found at last, and to-night I'll sleep 

Pillowed upon a breast, 

Warm as the first sweet breath that 
spring 

Sends as a token of promising, 

Warm as my love suppressed. 



50 



TO A DRYAD 

Naught can dissuade me 

You're a dryad still, 
And every murmuring, singing 

Mountain rill 
Speaks to you as it used, 

And sends a thrill 
Through all your being, 

And it ever will. 

For in the silent woods 

I know you hear 
The song of fairies, 

Vibrant, sweet, and clear; 
Calling and calling: 

"Come, why should you fear?" 
Some time you'll answer. 

Ah, I know you, dear! 



51 



What to all others may seem 

But the hum 
Of drowsy, honeyJaden bees 

That go and come, 
Each like to each, 

You recognise as from 
Some elfish sprite 

Insistent as a drum. 

The night-bird's cry is music, 

Though you start, 
For it recalls how 

When you were a part 
Of that dear past, 

At its weird sound you'd dart 
From cover to some satyr's 

Throbbing heart. 



52 



And all the flowers and leaves 

Both night and day 
Call to you: "Come, 

Come, now, and with us play. 
Forget all, all but love; 

Join our array, 
Once more a dryad. 

Can you answer, Nay?" 

I know this, 

Though I cannot tell you why. 
Unless it is that some eve 

When the sky 
Turned all bloodied and saffron, 

In your eye 
There came a look of longing 

And a sigh. 



53 



What did you long for? 

Was't that satyr bold 
Who played his pipes so sweetly 

That they hold 
Your spirit now? 

Who won you once, so cold 
To all, until his arms 

Did you enfold? 

Why did you sigh? Tell me 

Was't of the past 
You thought, surfeit with joy? 

And did it blast 
The present so by contrast 

That you cast 
All off to once regain it, 

Could it last? 



54 



We can't turn back the page 

Of life, that's plain, 
Though you can be a dryad 

Once again. 
Once more can answer 

When you hear the same 
Heart calling, 

So insistent in its pain. 

If I but thought you'd 

Answer to me — Nay, 
If I but thought you'd 

Let me say my say, 
I'd be that satyr, 

And I'd cast away 
All of this life 

That I might to you play. 



55 



THE QUESTION 

Come, my Love, why keep me waiting? 

See, the sun has long been gone. 

And the night is growing shorter, 

And the dawn 

Will be on us ere we know it 

And will find us both forlorn. 

I am seated by the hayrick 

Near the stable on the moor; 

I can see your lighted window 

And the door 

Whence youVe always come to meet me. 

It was never closed before. 

Is it that your widowed mother 
Loiters ere she goes to bed? 
Is it that your country gallant 
Has not said 

All his dull, bucolic partings? 
I could wish the lout were dead. 



56 



How was it this untaught maiden 
Could ensnare one of my years? 
Was it pity conquered reason 
Or the fears 

That o'ercame us by the brookside 
On that evening fraught with tears? 

Ah! How well can I remember 
Where I saw her first of all, 
Coming down the meadow pathway 
By the wall, 

Where it dips to cross the shallows 
Of the brook, below the fall. 

She was but a country maiden; 
I had seen her like before, 
When I painted rural England. 
And a score 

Can be found in any village. 
She was peasant to the core. 



57 



Yes — but very winsome looked she 

In the rosy morning light, 

As she walked the pathway singing; 

And the sight 

Of her beauty and her freshness 

Filled my soul with pure delight. 

What right had I to pursue her? 
She was happy 'fore I came, 
Faustrlike, into her existence; 
And her Dame 

Would as soon have doubted Heaven 
As have thought of her with shame. 

What possessed me then to woo her? 

All my senses said: "Depart, 

Ere you wake her childish passions." 

But my heart 

Overruled a life's experience; 

And 1 could not make the start. 



58 



Can a man of my position 

Take her for his wedded wife? 

Think how all my friends would scorn me, 

And the life 

We would lead there in the city: 

Love for weeks — then months of strife. 

Think of years and years together, 

After love had taken flight. 

How her petty thoughts would gall me 

Til the sight 

Of her pretty, foolish features 

Soon would drive me mad outright. 

No. Far better that I leave her; 
It will cause me far less pain; 
Sharp at first but sooner ended. 
And the gain 

To a man with my ambitions 
Will outweigh her life of shame. 



59 



Dare I think how she will take it 
When she finds me — nevermore 
Waiting for her in the meadow, 
Where I swore 

I would wed and love her always, 
As men oft have vowed before? 

Dare I think how the spring's beauty 
Will appear in years to come? 
Will she think of me with loathing 
When the sun 

Sinks beyond the wooded brookside 
Where by love she was undone? 

It is hard, but I must do it. 

How I wish Pd gone before. 

What is that? Have I been dreaming? 

Look, the door 

Opens wide — I see her coming. 

Shall I keep her evermore? 



60 



WHY DO I LAUGH? 

Why do I laugh? Ah, dearest, because my 

heart is sad. 
And the world trips by, unheeding, all but 

the motley^clad 
Jesters that laugh — so will I laugh, 
That the world may deem me glad. 

Why am I sad? Ah, dearest, because my 

heart's desire 
Is purer than the songs they sing in God's 

celestial choir 
And stronger than the gates of brass that 

compass Hell's fire. 

Why do I smile? Ah, dearest, I would that 

I might weep; 
But the world cares naught for sorrow and 

the nights refuse me sleep. 
So must I smile — a weary smile — 
And Love's lone vigil keep. 



61 



Why would I weep? Ah, dearest, 
Though I care not for Love's sorrow or for 

the sort of tears; 
So I laugh, perhaps to-morrow, and may- 
hap not for years. 



62 



THE EXILE 
A Valentine 

The sky is as blue as your eyes are, dear; 

The clouds as white as your rounded 
throat. 
And a stray bird sings in a tree — so near 

I can almost touch him, yet each note 
Is clear and sweet, as should angels sing 
The wonder and glory of love and spring. 

How I envy the bird! His heart is free, 
Free as the clouds in the deep blue sky, 

While mine is fettered. Ah, Love! maybe, 
Could I sing, you would answer by 
and by, 

Sensing the pain in songs that sing 

The wonder and glory of love and spring. 



63 



Let me come to you, dear. And in your 
eyes, 
Blue as the sky, will I find my song. 
Else my soul exiled from Paradise 

Must mute remain, though the way be 
long. 
Let me come to you, dear, that I may sing 
The wonder and glory of love and spring. 

February 14, 1916. 



64 



SENTIMENT VERSUS SCIENCE 
Sonnet XV. (To a deformed imbecile) 

Thou slavering one, whose wide, lack-lustre 

eyes 
Peer furtively about. Dost think to see 
Some fearsome being? Thou, prepared to 

flee 
Back to thy lair should fancied cause arise. 
In what Silenian dream did Fate devise 
That in your mother's womb at its decree 
Your epiblasts and mesoblasts were free 
To wander and unite in any wise? 
Which art thou? Some spoiled casting 

from the mould 
In which was formed the forebears of our 

race; 
Or art thou but reversion to some old 
Progenitor, whose strain we should efface. 
Whiche'er thou art, thou cumberer of 

earth, 
Twere better to have strangled thee at 

birth. 

November 24, 1915 

65 



AN HARLOT'S WELCOME 

Because I dance and laugh and sing; 
Because, perchance, my eyes grow bright, 
Think you the sweet, low murmuring 
That charmed your senses through the 

night 
Depicted passion? Your delight 
Fills me with horror and with scorn* 
I loathe your bestial appetite, 
And give God thanks when you have gone. 

Yet, what am I? Can my tears wring 

Your hearts in pity at my plight? 

I, who live but by chambering 

And by the lewdness I incite. 

Christ! — and I wish I dare recite 

All of my hatred and my scorn. 

But I shall smile on you to-night, 

And give God thanks when you have gone. 



66 



Smile for your gold, and for it bring 
My woman's body, smooth and white, 
Stripped of its last sheer covering, 
To wage love's conflicts through the night, 
God — for a fee, I must requite 
Each — all of you that I so scorn. 
An harlot's welcome — smile to-night, 
And give God thanks when you have gone. 



67 



THE MUMMERS 

Life is a play, 

And I a mummer. You 

May ask some day: 

"What good was there to do?" 

Was it naught to make men smile? 

And my part was to beguile 

Those about me for a while; 

Then to pass away. 

Each of us must wear a mask 

When we play life's tragedy. 

Weary hearts that quiet ask 

Oft are cast in comedy. 

So we all don mummery, 

Play our parts — some well — some ill. 

Nature, void of charity, 

Asks us not what role we'd fill. 



68 



Few of us are let to bask 

In a glare of luxury. 

Most are set an humble task 

Fretted o'er with poverty. 

So we all don mummery, 

Play our parts — some great — some small. 

Happy would the mortal be 

Who was given no part at all. 

None of us are given the task 
We would choose most willingly. 
Life, therefore, can only ask 
That we play it cheerfully. 
So we all don mummery, 
Play our parts as best we may; 
And in the grand summary 
What then matters what we play? 



69 



Life is a play. 

And I a mummer — you, 

Whate'er you say, 

Are but a mummer, too. 

So I pray in my behalf 

No quaint, rhyming epitaph, 

Just "He left the world a laugh 

When he passed away." 



70 



SONNET XXXII 

We show our smiling faces, we who know 
What life can give: the bitter and the 

sweet — 
The lightsome laughter and the veiled de~ 

ceit, 
The love, the faith, that ne'er will faithless 

grow. 
We know the world; to it we may not 

show 
Nor to ourselves dare we admit defeat. 
Not yet as mendicants will we entreat 
The crumbs of pity that the victors throw 
So, while we drink the wormwood and the 

gall 
That fate has portioned to us at Life's 

feast, 
We smile, we undefeated; after all, 
Brave hearts can dance though every viol 

has ceased. 
Let us go forth and fight — then, lose or 

win, 
Laugh at the jokes of some sad harlequin. 

Written July 11, 1916 

71 



THE SEASONS 

I walk beside her through the dell, 

Enchanted by the magic spell 

She weaves about her. 

And though I think she reads my mind, 

She helps me not, though always kind; 

Spring blossoms be about her! 

I lie and watch, while in the brook 
She deftly dappers with my hook. 
The willow's shadows on her; 
And carelessly displays to sight 
A foot and ankle dazzling white; 
The Summer's madness on her! 

I stand and glower when at the dance 

The forward gallants steal my chance 

To be beside her; 

And half distracted by her charms 

Imagine her in other arms 

When Autumn's foliage hides her. 



72 



I sit behind her at the play 

And, brooding, watch the revels gay, 

Nor can I chide her; 

For when my love to her I'd tell 

With banter gay she breaks the spell. 

Oh, Winter's warm beside her! 

I walk, and lie, and stand, and sit, 
Yet mute am rendered by her wit 
And by her laughter; 
But could I find her once in tears, 
Twould banish these unmanly fears, 
And I would ask her. 



73 



TO A STATUETTE 

Was it love, inspiring some pagan heart 
And guiding a hand now naught but dust, 
That fashioned Thy beauty? Undying art 
In gold and ivory! Or was it just 
The master^craft of one who saw 
A laughing dryad beside some rill, 
Saw, and copied without a flaw 
The grace and beauty that charm us still? 

For you are lovely of form and pose, 
Supple and lithe. And your golden hair 
But frames a face where the lips unclose 
To smile on life with no thought of care. 
Fresh and pure as the light that steals 
O'er Hymettus at break of day. 
Sweet the promise the Spring reveals 
In the quickened mould of a world's decay. 



74 



Year after year have I thought of you, 
Gold and ivory — and nothing more. 
Year after year has each season new 
Increased the interest I felt before. 
And now you come 'mid the dream love 

wrought, 
Claiming Her place; and now I see 
She has your beauty, the grace I sought, 
And the love and homage I paid to Thee. 

What you were like. What you must 

have been 
When, as a goddess, long years ago, 
You lived and loved in the forest green, 
Tell me. Was it my pristine soul 
Your beauty captured? was it my hand 
Moulded your semblance? iEons roll 
Between us, and yet you understand. 



75 



For your golden locks are flecked with light, 
Like that I love in my sun-kissed maid. 
And your ivory body, round and slight, 
Hers would counterpart, were it displayed. 
Goddess, Maiden reincarnate, 
Ivory-tinted with cream and rose, 
Guest, unbidden— Was it our Fate 
To kiss and pass as the Zephyr blows? 

Did I love You once as I love Her now? 
Was love so sweet when the world was 

young? 
Did a fluttering heartbeat stay the vow 
That had eased our pain? Had our eyes 

no tongue? 
Or did we love, lips pressed to lips, 
Soul-hungry for each other* s breath, 
Reaching that rare apocalypse 
Of love that endeth not with death. 



76 



THE TRESPASSER 

Cupid, weary, longed to rest, 
Tried at first the robin's nest. 
But he left it all unpressed 
When he spied your tender breast. 

There in softness he's embowered, 
And with sweetness so o'erpowered 
That, though threats on him Pve showered, 
He is neither moved nor cowered. 

Nestling there, the naughty boy . 
Mocks me with his glances coy, 
And takes a mischievous joy 
As my peace he doth destroy. 

And your heart I held in fee 
Now he keeps from thoughts of me. 
Cupid, thou art rested — flee 
Far away and set it free. 

Still he lingers in your breast, 
Fears to wander ever — lest 
Thoughts of me might there transgress 
Should he leave it tenantless. 

77 



SONNET XXXIII 

What do I love? Thou, my beloved, best, 
And afterward the silence of the night, 
When aery voices sing for my delight 
And dew-damp zephyrs woo mine eyes to 

rest. 
Earth, purged of earthy drosses that 
oppressed, 
Breathes an immortal fragrance; and 

the beat 
Of unseen wings, immeasurably sweet, 
And laughing footsteps on some unknown 
quest. 

I love the eventide, when shadows fling 

Strange goblin shapes, distorted imagery. 
Then the dead gods awake, and satyrs bring 
Their reedy pipes — oh, ancient min- 
strelsy, 
Thy charm, too sweet, too amorous for the 

light, 
Hath taught my soul the loveliness of night. 

Written December 3, 1916 



78 



"CORYDON AND AMARYLLIS" 
THE EAVESDROPPER 

Once, while strolling in the forest, 
Quite by chance I happed to see 
Corydon and Amaryllis 
Resting 'neath a tree. 
She was seated on his knee, 
Truth demands a full confession. 
This, at least, was my impression. 

Did I interrupt this wooing, 

And curtail their hour of joy? 

No — I waited very patient, 

Watching girl and boy. 

And the wiles he did employ, 

Which, of course, though but bucolic, 

Seemed to me most diabolic. 

Corydon would kiss and fondle; 
Amaryllis would have naught. 
He insisted none would know it; 
She, that they'd be caught, 
Pleasures now were dearly bought. 
And she argued with such reason 
That to doubt her seemed like treason. 

79 



Shall I tell you how he won her, 
What was done and what was said? 
What he sang and swore and promised, 
How he urged and pled? 
Till she, seemingly misled, 
Granted, it appeared with pleasure, 
All Fd heard her vow to treasure. 

No, the secret's far too precious. 
Why should I your wisdom swell 
By recounting my observings? 
They may serve me well. 
Only this much will I tell, 
That in love he was most pressing, 
Which to me was quite distressing. 



80 



MY LADY 

Fair my Lady — all agree, 
Though they know her not with me. 
Fair of brow and fair of hair, 
Yet I say of her — beware. 

Fair she is of neck and breast, 
Though they cause my soul unrest. 
Fair her eyes so blue and bright, 
Yet they mock while they invite. 

Fair and slim and round her waist, 
Though it shirks my arm, misplaced. 
Fair her lips like blushing rose, 
Yet her thoughts they ne'er disclose. 

Fair and small and pink her ear, 
Though my pleading 'twill not hear. 
Fair she is in every part, 
Yet I fear she has no heart. 



81 



THE NEGLECTED SHEPHERD 

All day I sit and play my pipe 

Unto my sheep. 
The lonely evenings, too, I play, 

And then, to sleep. 
While other shepherds dance and swing 
With lightsome hearts, and rollicking 
With Daphne, make the welkin ring 
With laughter and with frolicking, 

I play my pipe. 
Sad am I; 

Sad and dejected; 
Daphne, why am I neglected? 



82 



All day I sit and play my pipe. 

The saddening strain 
Can win from her no cheering smile 

To ease my pain. 
While other shepherds shout and sing 
With blithesome hearts, and chattering 
With Daphne, make the welkin ring 
With wanton gibes and flattering, 

I play my pipe. 
Sad am I; 

Sad and neglected; 
Daphne, why am I neglected? 



83 



HER VOICE 

Tis many years since first we met, 

And in these years I've listened oft 

To madrigal and canzonette, 

And viols breathing low and soft; 

Yet all seem mingling when she speaks, 

Like whispering fairy flageolet, 

In forest fastness playing soft, 

Weird, elfish strains; some quaint duet 

With laughing, gurgling rivulet. 



84 



HER FACE 

Her face a garden is, where rare, 
Pure lilies grow to grace her brow. 
And shy wood violets have a pair 
Of jewels placed, for eyes, I trow. 
While daffodils, with loving care, 
Spin golden tendrils for her hair. 

The wild arbutus paints her cheek 
Faint pink like some deep ocean shell, 
And all the treasures that you seek 
By meadow, mountain, wood, and dell 
I find in one dear face — though bleak, 
Chill winter, elsewhere, havoc wreak. 

There from the barren world I flee, 
To gather sweet forget-me-not 
And heartsease — both I guarantee 
More fragrant far than bergamot. 
But when she lends her lips to me, 
Then roses blossom riotously. 



85 



THE SHIPS 
"To Jean " 

I stood upon the bridge and watched 
The tall ships going out to sea, 
And wondered which, if any, might 
Bring some strange plaything home to me. 

And many others, too, I saw, 
But they were coming home from sea. 
I wondered what they had on board 
And if they brought something for me. 



86 



THE LOVER'S ALPHABET 

Why cannot I write to thee? 
Every child knows ABC 
D E F G H I J, 
And they print them every day. 

Why it could be done by them, 

For they all know KLM 

NOPQRST. 

They're but letters, as you see. 

Not a child there is but who 
Knows its U V W 
Also X Y and the Z. 
They're as easy as can be. 

Yet when I would write, 'tis true, 
All I think of is the U; 
And behind each U I try 
How it looks to place an I. 

So I cannot write to thee, 
Although much it grieveth me; 
For, however much I try, 
All I get is — U and I. 

87 



TOUT PASSE 

Last eve I watched the new-born moon 
Glide like a silver skiff between 
Rose-tinted clouds, that all too soon 
Grew grey in their desire to screen 
Her virgin beauty from the sight 
Of the lewd stars which haunt the night. 

But she will older grow, this moon, 
Older and wanton. Then I ween 
Shell scoff the clouds from heaven, and 

soon 
At any hour of night be seen. 
And every star will hide in fright, 
Whispering, "The Moon is full to-night." 



88 



SERENADE 

The listening leaves have fallen asleep; 
The prying moon has strayed away. 

Lady, although I sing, you keep 

Your shutter fast ; and soon the day 
Will warn me that I must away 

And end the songs I sing. 

Open thy casement, Sweet. Let loose 
The wondrous fragrance of thine hair. 

Lady, I love you. No abuse 

Could cause such anguish and despair 
As does thy window's lonely stare, 

Its silent echoing. 



89 



Open thy casement, Sweet. Love cries 
Faint and lone in thy garden's gloom. 

Lady, I love you. Ere night dies 

Come to me, come ; the dawn's perfume 
Foretells the hour when skies resume 

Their morning colouring. 

The listless leaves, 

The pitying stars have slipped away. 

Lady, although I sing, you sleep, 
And answer not; and now the day 
Has warned me and I must away 

And end the songs I sing. 



90 



HER LIPS ARE LIKE THE NEW- 
BORN ROSE 

Her lips are like the new-born rose 
That blushing greets the rising day; 

Her voice a murmuring stream that flows 
And laughing bears my heart away; 

Or would, did I not know that she 

Has never heart to give to me. 

Her cheeks are lilies fresh with dew 
O'er which the vagrant sunbeams play; 

Her breasts are Cupid's rendezvous 
Wherein he lures us to betray. 

Ah, Love! What dreams of paradise 

Have withered there 'mid snow and ice! 

Her eyes recall the stars that swing 
In heaven's gorgeous disarray; 

Her breath is like the breath of spring 
When vanquished winter steals away. 

She is all this, and yet, forsooth — 

She will not, cannot, tell the truth. 



91 



HEARTS DESIRE 

Heart of my heart, I shall find you at last. 
Maiden of dreams, thou hast whispered 
to me 
In the woods, the flowers, the streams, 
In the moon's soft beams. 
Calling out from a dim, intangible past 
That must yield, my own one, at last. 

For the wind has sang, oh, my Heart's De~ 
sire, 
And the murmuring waves have cheered 
my soul 
With promises sweet as the burgeoning 

spring. 
When the dead leaves fling 
Themselves to the light, in their new attire, 
So will I wait you, my Heart's Desire. 



92 



For you were mine once; then the world 

was young, 
And each passionate star hung low to 
bless 
Our love, that yet in Avatar 
Will time's seal unbar; 
And I claim you again, though the stars 

give tongue 
In envy, my love, since the world was 

young. 

Written December, 1916 



93 



SPRING SONG 

Gray the skies of April, 
Blue the skies of May; 

Yet the rains of April 
Bring the flowers of May. 

May, with all its splendour 
Of earth and air and sky; 

May, with all its splendour 
That wantons to the eye. 

Gray the skies of April, 
Blue the skies of May; 

Yet the tears of April 
Bring the smiles of May. 

Written February 19, 1916 



94 



RECESSIONAL 

Bury me when I come to die 
Where the wet, salt breezes sing, 
Where the shifting sand-dunes lie, 
Where the gull on poised wing 
Hears no answer to his call, 
Sees but sand and sea and sky. 
There to dream — apart from all — 
Bury me when I come to die. 

I should never feel at rest 
With my brethren — all a row. 
Cramped and fettered, on my breast 
Some vile monument to show 
Who I was, when born, when died. 
I, who loved the open best 
And its silence — well I know 
I should never feel at rest. 



95 



Say this much, and say no more 
When you leave me there to sleep 
'Neath the stars who evermore 
Kiss the lisping waves that creep 
Upward till they almost claim 
My still lips — could they restore 
Speech, my cry would be the same. 
Say this much, and say no more. 

He was shifting as the sand, 
Heedless as the winds that blow, 
Born blood brother in that band 
Of the ne'er-do-well who know 
All of promise, all of pain. 
Dreaming — ah, you understand 
He had naught but dreams to show; 
He was shifting as the sand. 



96 



Bury me when I come to die 
Where the wild, salt breezes sing, 
Where the ocean, hurrying by, 
Soothes me with its murmuring. 
I have loved it — loved it all, 
Wind and sand and sea and sky. 
There to dream — and wait His call, 
Bury me when I come to die. 

Written January, 1915 



97 



WEEP NOT FOR ME 

Weep not for me, Dear Heart, when I am 

dead, 
For I have drank of laughter and of tears 
And now am weary, lonely — and I dread 
Life's barren garden and the changeless 

years. 

Weep not for me. The strife is o'er, and 

won 
Or lost — who cares, but I who most should 

care. 
The fading petals falling one by one 
Attract more notice than a soul's despair. 



98 



Weep not for me. I would not let one 

tear 
Bedim the glorious brightness of your eye. 
For I have lived and loved — and do not 

fear 
More than your cast-by roses fear to die. 

Weep not for me, Dear Heart, when I am 

dead. 
But should by chance your dreamings back- 

wards stray 
Think of me kindly — as a flower that shed 
Its petals on your breast some yesterday. 



99 



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